


Hinata Shouyou is Not Smart

by someonestolemyshoes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Humour, Injury, KageHina - Freeform, M/M, breif mentions of kageyama being Really Gay for hinata and not knowing it yet, cycling injury, dick injury, dick mentions, im not sure if it even is humour it's just funny to me ok, listen this happened to a guy at work and i couldn't stop thinking about it, stunt injury, this is almost crack but listen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 13:56:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8164319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/pseuds/someonestolemyshoes
Summary: “Remember that time,“ Hinata begins, tucked deep in his chair with his hands folded over his groin, disdain dripping from every word, “you dared me to ride my bike down the stairs?”Kageyama grits his teeth. It’s late - too late to argue, a big, pearly moon hanging from the clouds beyond the widows. Hinata shuffles in the hard plastic seat, slips a pained, muffled groan past his lips and settles still. Somewhere down the hall, machinery beeps, whirrs, hisses air and the smell that circulates is a mix of bleach and sweat and something that Kageyama doesn’t even want to put a name to.“For the last time,” Kageyama says, “I didn’t dare you to do it. You bet me you could, and I said ‘dumbass, don’t ride your bike down the stairs,’ and you said ‘don’t tell me what to do,’ and then you rode your bike down the stairs. And here we are.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> listen this is purely self indulgent ridiculousness because a very similar thing happened to a dude at work and I thought it was h i l a r i o u s and also one hundred per cent something Hinata would do and that stupid 'remember that time you dared me' meme is so perfect

“Remember that time,“ Hinata begins, tucked deep in his chair with his hands folded over his groin, disdain dripping from every word, “you dared me to ride my bike down the stairs?”

Kageyama grits his teeth. It’s late - too late to argue, a big, pearly moon hanging from the clouds beyond the widows. Hinata shuffles in the hard plastic seat, slips a pained, muffled groan past his lips and settles still. Somewhere down the hall, machinery beeps, whirrs, hisses air and the smell that circulates is a mix of bleach and sweat and something that Kageyama doesn’t even want to put a name to.

“For the _last_ time,” Kageyama says, “I didn’t dare you to do it. You bet me you could, and I said ‘ _dumbass, don’t ride your bike down the stairs_ ,’ and you said ‘ _don’t tell me what to do_ ,’ and then you rode your bike down the stairs. And here we are.”

**SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER**

Hinata is, always has been, and probably always will be, full of terrible ideas. So it’s not like Kageyama is at all surprised by the proposition that he, Hinata Shouyou, can ride his bike down one entire flight of stairs for the small price of a fresh meat bun should he succeed. Which he will, he says, hands on his hips, shoulders back and chest puffed all the way out; he’ll do it with his eyes closed.

“No.”

Hinata huffs, and then he bounds on legs made of springs, leaps and hops right up into Kageyama’s face.

“I’ll do it,” he says, holds out a hand, “I’ll bet you _two_ meat buns I can do it.”

“No,” Kageyama says. He casts a wary glance to Hinata’s bike. It’s...not exactly new; there is rust creeping over the frame, and the chain looks a little too dry, and are the wheels supposed to be that thin? Kageyama doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything about bikes, not really, but what he is almost one hundred percent certain of is that they are not, under like... _any_ circumstances, supposed to go down stairs.

Hinata pokes a finger at his chest.

“Why? Scared you’ll lose?”

The will to argue is instinctual; Hinata is goading, and Kageyama will bite (should bite, _wants_ to bite), but the thing is, he also doesn’t...doesn’t really want Hinata to _die_.

“I’m _not_ betting you,” he says, looks from the bike to the stairs and back again. The finger prodding his chest curls into a fist, and Hinata punches him in the shoulder.

“Why not? We bet on stuff all the time-”

“-not _stupid_ stuff. Not stuff that might actually kill you _dead_.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hinata huffs. He folds his arms, bounces on the balls of his feet. “Just bet me, Kageyama. I’ll do it.”

Kageyama squints down at him. Hinata is prone to picking fights - multiple times a day, usually - and most times Kageyama fights back, but there’s something...different, about this one. Hinata’s shoes shuffle together at the toes.

“Why,” Kageyama starts. Hinata’s fingers pinch at his shirt below his armpits. “Do you wanna bet on this so badly.”

“Because I like winning.”

Hinata doesn’t sound at all convinced by the words coming from his own mouth. He looks grouchy, cheeks puffed and lips pouted, brow pulled low in a frown, and Kageyama’s eyes narrow a little further.

“You spent all your money, didn’t you.”

“No!” It’s too fast, too guilty, and Kageyama shoots out a hand to fist at Hinata’s hair.

“Dumbass,” he says, ruffles bright tufts between his fingers. Hinata cringes away from his grip. “If you want me to buy you a meatbun, just ask. You don’t have to break your neck for it.”

Hinata squirms. His arms hang loose, hands knotted together and Kageyama watches the shuffle of his shoulders, the way his teeth pinch the inside of his cheek, the twist of his eyes so they’re looking anywhere but at Kageyama.

He mumbles something, too low and hidden under breath for Kageyama to hear, and Kageyama pulls at his hair.

“Speak up.”

“Then I’ll _owe_ you.”

Kageyama pulls his hand away. The evening is a sticky kind of warm and the wind that blows carries no chill. It lifts the hair flattened by Kageyama’s palm, and there’s weird, wild moment where the blink of Hinata’s eyes makes Kageyama’s heart jump right into his throat.

“You’ll owe me,” he says, blinks, swallows his heart back down again, “you’ll owe me, and you’d rather ride your deathtrap down an _entire_ staircase.”

Hinata nods.

“That’s...that’s the dumbest thing i’ve ever heard.”

Kageyama isn’t really sure how it happens, but the argument that ensues results in the pair of them perched at the top of the big stone staircase, Hinata straddling his bike, hands revving the handles, and Kageyama’s meatbun yen fisted in his pants pocket.

“This is ridiculous.”

“It won’t be ridiculous when I’m eating _victory_ buns~”

Kageyama wipes a hand down his face. The sky is stripped in pink, bruising darker as the sun sinks lower, and Kageyama’s watches shadows shift across Hinata’s face, down the stairs, blanketing the stone in black.

“Just get it over with,” Kageyama grumbles. He’s less than concerned about losing the money; a little concerned about losing the bet, because Hinata winning is never good, ever. Mostly, though, he is worried about the sharp ledges on the stairs, the perfect, angular cut of the stone, and just how many there are for Hinata to potentially kill himself on. “It’s getting dark.”

Hinata nods. He readjusts the helmet over his head, tightens the chin strap and kicks the toes of one foot against the pedal.

Kageyama can barely look. His palms are sweating, hot and clammy in his pockets. Hinata pushes the front wheel of his bike right up against the top step; it curves over the ledge, rubber denting where the stone cuts into it. Kageyama winks one eye closed and watches from the corner of the other.

“Okay,” Hinata says, a little waver in his tone, “here I go.”

And go he does.

It...goes surprisingly well, for the first few steps. Hinata white knuckles the handle bars, feet braced steady and secure on the pedals, and the bike judders its way down two, four, six, _eight_ stairs, and Kageyama opens his other eye because it’s looking like Hinata might actually make it all the way down.

On ninth step, the bike starts to wobble. On the tenth, the front wheel slips, twists, and Hinata’s toes slide until he’s standing heels to the pedal. Kageyama watches with ever-widening eyes as the bike careens down another couple of steps, on an angle now, hurtling closer and closer to the railing and Hinata is only two steps from the bottom when the front wheel clips the verge, and all hell breaks loose.

Kageyama doesn’t think he’s ever heard a crash so loud in all his _life_.

Things settle quickly; Kageyama stands at the top of the long, long staircase, and Hinata lies still, curled in a ball at the bottom. The bike lies still, too, save for the slow tick of the back wheel as it spins itself out.

“Idiot,” Kageyama seethes, takes the stairs two at a time and stops, cautious, beside Hinata’s body.

He’s conscious, thankfully, Kageyama thinks, because he really doesn’t know much first aid at all and he’s not entirely sure what he’d have done if Hinata had actually died. He curls tighter, knees below his chin, hands tucked somewhere between his stomach and his thighs. Kageyama crouches, weight braced on the balls of his feet.

“Oi,” he says, prods a finger at Hinata’s shoulder. “Dumbass.”

“Hng.”

It’s about as close to a response as Kageyama is expecting. He stands, nudges a toe at Hinata’s hip and shoves his hands back in his pockets.

“Come on, up.” Hinata sucks in a couple of breaths through his nose. “I’ll buy you _one_ meatbun, because you _almost_ made it.”

Hinata grunts. He shuffles, cheek pressed to the floor, and rolls to balance on his knees. His hands are buried between his thighs, cupping his--oh.

Oh.

Kageyama snorts.

“Did you,” he starts, fights the weird, foreign urge to outright _laugh_ and purses his lips. “Did you hit yourself in the-”

“- _Y_ _es_ , yes shut up.”

Hinata rolls his face from cheek to forehead, puffs air into his cheeks and breathes slow through his nose. He looks pale, sickly, a little bit like he might actually throw up any second. Kageyama feels...marginally bad for him, but he’s mostly relieved nothing _worse_ happened.

“Oh my god.” Hinata’s voice comes thick and whiny, and he sits up slowly, eyes watery and face wrinkled.

“Serves you right,” Kageyama says. Hinata sticks out his tongue and hobbles to his feet, bending to pick up his bike. Kageyama has never seen him so _stiff_ before, all straight limbs and short steps, and he doesn’t say another thing as he wheels his bike towards the corner store, Kageyama trailing behind.

* * *

Kageyama is not accustomed to four AM phone calls. He’s not accustomed to phone calls _at all_ , really, because he’s never had friends to call him, and his parents don’t often check in and it’s rare that anybody needs to talk about something they can’t say through text.

So it’s weird, unnerving, when he wakes to the buzz of his phone on his desk. It rattles over the wood, shimmies past his alarm clock - the blinking green lights read 04:07 - and drops to the floor with a thud. Kageyama gropes for it, flattens one cheek to his pillow and presses the phone to the other.

“What.”

“Kageyama?”

Kageyama rolls his eyes; he should have known, he should have _known_. Hinata gives a little hum down the line, and a nervous kind of giggle bubbles past his lips.

“I know it’s early, or late or whatever,” he says, and Kageyama interrupts with a _no shit_ mumbled into his pillow. “But I was wondering…”

There’s a pause, then, a long one, and noises pick their way down the line in Hinata’s absence; beeping, muffled voices, the tap of feet and the click of heels and, somewhere, the distant wail of sirens. Kageyama sits up.

“Where are you?”

It’s not that he’s _worried_. He’s not, he’s definitely not, he’s just..annoyed. Definitely annoyed, and not even a little bit concerned.

Hinata gives another awkward, strained kind of laugh.

“About that,” he says. A name is called on Hinata’s end of the line. “Do you think you could meet me at the hospital?”

**PRESENT**

“Remind me why I’m here,” Kageyama says, when the toddler across the room throws up in a paper baggy for the _third_ time. Hinata adjusts the waistband of his sweats.

“I told you, I woke up and everything _down there_ is like…” his voice goes quiet, hushed, and he eyes the toddler warily as he says, “black. I think I’m dying.”

“That’s why _you’re_ here,” Kageyama says. Hinata takes the last few sips of water from a little plastic cup and, after looking back and forth between his crotch and the bin, tosses it in the general bin direction and slumps back in his chair. “Why am _I_ here?”

Hinata shuffles, uncomfortable.

“It’s super boring here,” he says. “And the wait is really long, and there's nobody at home and I didn’t wanna sit here on my own all night _and_ ,” he pauses again, wedges both arms between his thighs and pouts, “I didn’t wanna tell anyone else what happened.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t totally hate you anymore.”

Hinata looks weirdly happy at that, beams up at him with the widest smile and the brightest eyes and there’s even a little colour to his cheeks, but it fades out on a pained kind of groan. It makes Kageyama’s stomach do something funny, goes all warm and...floppy, and he looks out over the room to stare at a drunk man sleeping on his own shoulder. There’s blood dripping from beneath a bandage plastered above his eye, and Kageyama isn't totally convinced he's still breating. 

The rhythmic beep of monitors drones on, and Kageyama listens to the thump of feet, the hum of wheels over tile, muted conversations patchworking the orchestra and he thinks he’d very much like to be just about anywhere else.

Hinata huffs. His face is pale under the glare of the overheads, eyes glassy, teeth worrying his bottom lip.

“It _really_ hurts,” he says. Kageyama palms over his face, drags the skin of his cheeks so low his eyeballs dry out.

“I know,” Kageyama says. “That’s why you're  _here_.”

“Is my leg gonna fall off? Is…” his voice drops, hissed and desperate, and he leans in so close Kageyama can smell the fear leaking off of him, “is _it_ gonna fall off?”

“Definitely not, probably.”

Hinata whines, grips Kageyama’s sleeves and rags it back and forth, “which one is it? Definitely not or probably? It can’t be both! The internet said black means the tissue is dead, Kageyama, does that mean it’s going to drop off?.”

“I don’t know,” Kageyama grumbles, “I’m not a _doctor_.”

“You’re better at chemistry than me!” Hinata’s voice is creeping higher and higher, sitting tighter in his thoat, and Kageyama shushes him with a palm clapped over his mouth. A few faces twist their way; Kageyama clears his throat, draws his brows way in and stares down a peaky looking kid peering over the back of a chair. His face goes impossibly paler and he coughs, turns his back to them.

Something warm and wet and _slimy_ skirts over Kageyama’s palm.

“Hinata, idiot!”

A couple more faces turn their way. Kageyama rubs his saliva-wet palm down Hinata’s sleeve.

“That’s disgusting.”

“My spit isn’t disgusting.”

“It’s way more disgusting than anyone else’s spit.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Hinata Shouyou?”

Hinata’s head whips around. He twists in his chair, and a yelp squeezes out of him. A nurse stands in the doorway, clipboard plastered to her chest, and she peers over her glasses at the pair of them. Kageyama nudges Hinata’s shoulder.

“Go on,” he says, and Hinata turns again.

“Come with me,” he hisses, standing slowly, legs parted just a little too wide for comfort.

“I’m not going in there while she looks at your-” Kageyama flounders, for a moment, and then he gesticulates in the general direction of Hinata’s groin and shakes his head. “No way.”

Hinata tugs at the collar of his jacket.

“Come _on_ ,” he says. The nurse calls his name a second time, holds the door open a little wider. “It’s not like you’ve never seen it before.”

Kageyama can feel the blood climbing up his face; it bubbles from somewhere way beneath the collar of his shirt, flows up, paints his skin red until all the colour settles in his cheeks. Hinata’s fingers pinch deeper into the fabric.

“Don’t-” Kageyama starts, loud, and when seemingly every head in the room twists his way he lowers his tone to a hiss, “don’t say that so loud, idiot!”

“Well, you have!”

Kageyama rubs a palm over his face. He _has_ , he’s seen Hinata’s _thing_ too many times; in the shower, in the bath, in the changing rooms, one time in the hallway at training camp, but that doesn’t mean he wants to look at it again, not when it’s all bruised and gross and possibly dying.

“Just come with me. You don’t even have to look at it.”

Hinata tugs on his collar once more, hard, and Kageyama jerks angrily to his feet. Hinata’s shoulders sink in a little as he sighs, something like relief flitting across his stupid face, and then he waddles towards the nurse and into the room with Kageyama following reluctantly behind.

It smells even more sterile in here, less like sweat and dirt and gross-people smell and more like antiseptic. Hinata takes the only seat, and Kageyama stands to one side, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoody.

“Alright,” the nurse says, hands folded over her lap, “talk me through what happened.”

Hinata scratches the back of his head. He recounts the tale with steadily reddening cheeks, and the nurse is working hard to keep a straight face, quiet and patient until Hinata is done.

“Okay, let’s take a look.”

Hinata balks; blinks; looks from Kageyama to the nurse and back again. All the red building up on his face sinks right back out, drains like he’s sprung a leak, and he stands with his thumbs beneath the waistband of his sweats, picking at the fabric.

“Like, right now?” He says, and the nurse nods her head.

Kageyama shouldn’t look; he knows he shouldn’t, because he doesn’t want to see Hinata butt naked, but he can’t turn away even as Hinata tugs the waistband down over his hips, slides it carefully over his thighs and drops it all the way down to his ankles.

“Boxers too,” the nurse says, and Hinata gives a weird, mortified kind of whine in protest. He turns to Kageyama, and Kageyama rolls his eyes away before Hinata can catch him looking.

“Don’t look.”

Kageyama gives him his best _of course I won’t, what kind of idiot do you think I am_ glare, folds his arms over his chest.

“Just hurry up,” he says. The nurse clears her throat. Kageyama twists his neck in the opposite direction, resolutely looking at anything _but_ Hinata’s bare legs. There are posters bordering the walls, each one providing information on something scary or disgusting or (mostly) both, and he is down to the third bullet point on _Ten Symptoms You Definitely Shouldn’t Ignore_ when the nurse speaks again.

“Oh my,” she says. “That does look nasty.”

And Kageyama turns around.

It’s not like he _meant_ to look. Honestly, he really, very much didn’t, but now he’s looking and he can’t stop looking because the entire right side of Hinata’s groin is, indeed, black.

The tissue looks...mottled, marbled, backdropped in black and veined in reds and blues and purples, and the colouring extends from a big, clean line following the v of his hips, halfway down his right thigh. Everything - _everything_ \- in between is discoloured.

“Mhm,” Hinata says. He’s not looking at Kageyama, or the nurse, or his crotch, which is fortunate because Kageyama can’t stop staring. It’s...horrifying, honestly, and his own body gives a weird sympathy twinge at the sight.

“Does it hurt to touch?”

The colour swings back up into his face so fast Kageyama is definitely getting whiplash. He nods, and squirms, and Kageyama watches the nurse poke and prod over his groin until he yelps, loud, and jerks out of reach.

He feels a weird surge of...something, when the nurse goes to do it again. She’s saying something that’s supposed to be reassuring, but Hinata’s thighs shake and he braces a palm on the desk to keep himself upright as the reddrains swiftly from his face. He’s biting his tongue, Kageyama can tell, and his eyes are squeezed into a mess of wrinkled skin and a thick, whimpery noise gurgles in his throat as the nurse keeps poking.

“Can you rate the pain for me, on a scale of one to ten?”

Hinata doesn’t say a word. Kageyama watches the bob of his throat as he swallows with a frown burrowing deeper into his brow. It’s not funny anymore; it’s uncomfortable, he thinks, watching Hinata like this. The nurse looks up at him.

“I need an answer, please,” she presses. Hinata shakes his head, swallows again, takes a shaky breath through his nose.

“Ten.”

Kageyama doesn’t realise he’s spoken until the nurse turns to face him. She’s still got her hands on Hinata's crotch, two fingers hovering against the skin, and Hinata winks an eye open to look at him, too.

“I mean,” Kageyama says, gesturing a little lamely in Hinata’s direction, “he can’t even _talk_. So it’s bad, probably.”

This seems to satisfy the nurse because she withdraws, snaps her gloves from her hands and tosses them in the bin, then scribbles something on her clipboard.

“I’m going to see if we can get you put through now,” she says. “I’d imagine they’ll want to do an x-ray to see if anything is broken-”

“-Broken?!” Hinata yelps. He’s pulling his trousers back into place with shaky hands, and once he’s done he lowers himself back into his chair, eyes big and wide and staring at the nurse. “What might be broken?!”

The nurse waves a placating hand.

“It’s just a precaution,” she says, “but because of the amount of bruising, you’ve likely bled from a large blood vessel. It’s important we check there’s no bone protruding that may be cutting into it.”

“Okay,” he says, thick. “But is that _all_ that might be wrong?”

The nurse’s brows twitch in a little.

“Is there something else you’re worried about?”

“I just,” Hinata starts, and he squirms in his seat, “I mean, is my... _you know_ …”

The nurse’s frown is sinking deeper and deeper, and Kageyama lets Hinata flounder for a little longer before he cuffs the back of his head and says, “He wants to know if his dick is gonna fall off.”

* * *

As it turns out, Hinata’s junk is not at any immediate risk of dropping off. The doctor is biting his cheek as he tells Hinata that, while he can’t promise it will _never_ happen, he can safely assure him that it won’t be of any concern from this particular mishap.

He does, however, inform him that he has broken a bone - his pubic bone - and he _has_ hemorrhaged a relatively important artery.

Hinata doesn’t seem very concerned.

“This is my first ever broken bone, how cool is that!”

Hinata is all squawks and squeaks as they leave the hospital. It's light and crisp outside, early morning air filtering in Kageyama's hospital-stale lungs. The scans, as it turned out, took  _hours_ , and Kageyama is beyond tired, eyes heavy and back aching from so many hours of sitting. 

Hinata's fingers are curled into the sleeve of Kageyama’s hoodie so he can’t walk too far ahead. He’s still hobbling with his legs a little parted, but, Kageyama thinks, he seems a lot more at ease knowing no body parts will be lost today.

“It’s not cool,” Kageyama grumbles. “You don’t even have a cast to sign, _and_ you have to rest for like...four weeks. That’s a whole month with _no volleyball_.”

“Wuaahh,” Hinata moans, tightens his grip on Kageyama’s sleeve, “I don't know if I can wait that long.”

“Tough, you have to.”

"The doctor didn't say that!" 

"The doctor said four weeks rest, idiot, what did you think he meant?" 

"Rest," Hinata says, "except for volleyball." 

Kageyama blinks long and slow, then shakes his head and walks towards the roadside to find Hinata a taxi home. 

* * *

It's past nine when Kageyama gets back to bed. The sun is burning through his window, casting big long strips over his duvet and he falls onto the mess of blankets with tired eyes and a sigh rumbling in his chest. Stupid Hinata, he thinks, burrows beneath the sheets and settles against his pillows; stupid hinata and his stupid bet and his _really_ stupid dick.

Kageyama is almost, almost asleep - just a nap, he thinks, before lunch - when his phone buzzes once more.

It's a text, this time, though Hinatas name still lights the screen. Kageyama opens it with squinted, sleepy eyes and, after a moment, switches it off and throws the stupid thing to the other end of the bed.

* * *

 

_When I'm better, I'll try again and this time I want THREE meat buns!!!!_

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for anyone who read this absolute disaster I just can't stop thinking about how tragic my friends' lives are
> 
> also like do not take this as Medically Sound re: treatment and also the way they handle hina hitting himself in the dick. Dick/ball injuries can be super serious so if any of y'all ever hurt yourself see ur doctor!! don't wait for your peen to go black to get it checked promise me 
> 
> also also: this is based on how UK A&E works i have no idea what the differences are in Japan


End file.
